Andrea and Vanderhoop

This is my first cousin Andrea, to whom I refer often as my sister. She's the closest thing I have to one. She spent a lot of time with my parents, brother, and me when I was growing up, and Cade and I lived with Andrea and her daughter Brandi for about 1.5 years after my ex-husband and I separated. Also, far as I know, Andrea and Brandi are the only relatives I have within an hour's driving distance.

Photo by Anjie Kay

Andrea stopped in, today, with her best friend, an eighty-one-year-old Native American named Vanderhoop. He may well be the most fascinating person who's ever graced my door. This is Vanderhoop, holding Baby Chip:

 

I could write many things about our wonderful visit, but the thing I want to share most is the conversation I overheard between my daughters, after Andrea and Vanderhoop left. The girls were playing in the other room, and Clementine (age 4) asked Charleigh (age 2): "Did Andrea come today?"

"Yep," Charleigh said. "She came. And her fadder [father] came." Clementine didn't respond at all.

Now, obviously, Vanderhoop and Andrea look very differently, but my little girls paid no nevermind. All they could see was the love between these two people. And that love was bright and strong enough for them to conclude: Vanderhoop and Andrea must be father and daughter. 

Would that it were always so.

Reflections on Marriage Counseling

As I shared a few weeks back, Jim and I--in an attempt to make our "ever after" go as happily as possible--have been working with a counselor. Considering we haven't yet addressed the first issue*, I'm amazed by how much the counseling has helped, already. I wish we'd gone years ago.

You may be wondering why I'm blogging about this, and truth is: I don't really know. I do believe with all my heart that, as believers, we do ourselves and others a disservice when we pretend we're perfect. I don't want my hurts wasted and like to think that--by laying them out like this--I make it easier for God to use them. I seek accountability. I desire prayer.

Anyway, our first session was all about the three of us getting to know one another and deciding to work together. The counselor offered no advice or suggestions beyond encouraging our being nice to one another until the next session. We'd made the first step, he said, and we needed to rest in the knowledge that we were on the right road, that things were going to get better.

Those simple words really helped me, and Jim and I didn't have the first argument before our second session. It felt like some of the pressure had been relieved. We were hopeful and especially attentive and kind toward one another.

During our second session, Jim and I took a lot of notes regarding a specific process of communication called reflective listening. We'd been collecting hurts and resentments for a long time, our counselor said; our first goal should be to stop accumulating them. He gave us some homework and sent us home to complete it. We had another excellent weekend, but a few days before our third session, we tried to discuss an event of the day and had a communication fail.

When our conversation started to get heated, Jim called a time-out, which is part of the reflective-listening process. I was perturbed: we hadn't followed the process up to that point, and Jim wasn't particularly inclined to follow it after. I pretty much refused to accept the time-out until Jim followed the rest of the process correctly.

Our third session with the counselor was painful for me because the counselor disapproved of my refusing to accept the time-out. Einstein defined insanity, the counselor said, as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, and fact is: I've always refused to let things drop for any reason or length of time. I pretty much demand to be heard, understood, appeased, etc....not that it's worked out for me.

The counselor reminded me: if I have a problem, it's my problem. I need to ask the other person to help me with it and respect his or her need for the time and/or space to do so. He said: any answer or response I get from demanding is unlikely to be the one I want. Finally, he encouraged me to trust him, Jim, and the process itself. We won't leave things unresolved from here on out, the counselor promised, regardless of how many times that's happened in my past.

All in all, his words forced me to take a hard look at myself, my past, and the unhealthy patterns I've learned and lived. I cried and cried, and--at the end of the session--I really just wanted to go to bed. But I reckon they call them growing pains for a reason.

One more note: the time-out part of the reflective-listening process, when carried out properly, should make it possible to 1) talk about the troublesome issue at a later time, and 2) talk easily about other things, in the interim. I love those concepts.

*No worries: I don't intend to write out our issues at any point, just share some of what I'm learning.

Thoughts on Motherhood for ALL People

I was mixed up, but the Jehovah's Witnesses helped straighten me out. I invite them in, always, because I think we have things to learn from one another, also because they love my family and me: I can tell.

Somehow, don't ask me how, I'd come to believe that God had intended for Adam and Eve to live alone in the Garden of Eden, that after their banishment, He changed His plan and essentially cursed Eve with motherhood and all its pains.

Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children. Genesis 3:16a

I'd assumed that Adam and Eve needed workers in the form of children because their life of ease had come to a screeching halt. But, in fact, God had intended from the day of their creation, Day 6 (Genesis 1:31), that they become parents.

So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them. And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply. Genesis 1:27-28a

The children God mentioned in Genesis 3:16 were a promise, not a punishment, to Eve. The intense pain (of pregnancy and childbirth) was the punishment.

The Jehovah's Witnesses helped me look at motherhood in a whole new way. I know: not every person is a woman, a mother, or both, but every person has, or will, pass through the body of a woman to get here and therefore has, or had, or will have a mother.

Whoever you are and whatever your situation, you are meant to be here. Your presence carries no hint of curse, shame, or shadow. You are a promise fulfilled. You are a fearfully- and wonderfully-made (Psalm 139:14) gift to this world, and God loves you.

In fact, God loves you so much that He gave His Son a mother. Consider with me: God gave His Son the only experience common to all people since Adam and Eve: passage through the body of a woman. Not everyone has, or will, die (consider Enoch and Elijah), but everyone has, or will be, born. God could have sent Jesus--who existed before He was born of Mary (John 1:1)--another way, but God didn't; He sent Jesus helpless, infantile...just the same way He sends all of us: through a woman.

You might even say: God loves you so much that He gave Himself a mother. A mother was the one thing God didn't have until His trinitarian experience through the person of Jesus. 

Motherhood is a gift to all people. It is the means by which we have all arrived in this place. Won't you celebrate with me, this year, the God-given gift of your life?

Happy Mother's Day, Friend.

All Stress

I'd visited faithfully but hadn't busted her out of the adult home for a good while. When it comes to adventuring, I tend to err on the brave side and know: if it scares me, I shouldn't do it. Given that I didn't trust my legs while pregnant, many things scared me, and it took awhile for me to feel ready, post Baby Chip. But last Tuesday, I felt ready.

She'd wanted to return to the Science Museum of Virginia since our trip there two years ago, and--although we no longer have a family membership--Jim had bought a Groupon that was nearing expiration. I called ahead to let her know I was running a little late; I didn't want her to be angsty and fussy like she gets. She was ready to the rain bonnet and snowmen sweater when I arrived; I signed her out, and we were on our way.

We explored the entire museum, breaking to eat the lunch I'd packed and watch both Born to be Wild on IMAX and a rat-basketball demonstration (which squigged me out completely). We enjoyed ourselves so much, but I had to remind myself more than once of these wise words from Oprah:

All stress comes from resisting what is.

The tensest moments, for me, revolved around the IMAX. I'd gotten tickets for the noon showing without considering: Miss Joyce prefers to eat lunch between 11:30 and 12:00. It was challenging (to say the least) to eat lunch, fulfill our bathroom needs, and travel to the dome on time. When we got there, the door was locked.

I waved down a busy-looking man behind a glass wall and watched a look of annoyance cross his face, but--after he came out--I nodded toward my three little ones and Miss Joyce and said: "I'm so sorry we're late; we tried to get here on time. My hands are just really full." He unlocked the door.

Well. No sooner did we get situated in the dome when I realized: I no longer had my wallet. I whispered a quick prayer; left the girls and my camera with Miss Joyce; and--with Baby Chip in my arms--hurried out of the dome and back up the steps. Almost unbelievably, my wallet was sitting just outside the bathroom, on the very top step where Baby Chip and I had waited for Miss Joyce and watched the girls play.

I hated waving down the man behind the glass wall, again, but the door to the dome had locked behind me. After he came out, I took a deep breath and told him about my wallet. Then I said: "I feel a little crazy busting someone out of the adult home when I have three tiny children, but the Lord is with me."

"Yes," he said, smiling, and unlocked the door a second time.

I took this photo from the step where I left my wallet.

Half a Year

Dear Baby Chip,

Two days ago, you hit your first half birthday. I don't recollect grieving a birthday smaller than ten, before, let alone a half birthday of any number, but I felt sad, Baby Chip, and still do.

I think it has to do with knowing you're my last, also with knowing harder ages are coming; I'm living three harder ages, right now, with your siblings. They sass and argue and grumble, and sometimes I can't please them even when I'm my best (deeply flawed) self.

Truth be told, I'm not ready for your first tooth or your second word. ("Mama" is just perfect, thank you very much!) I'm not ready for you to start rolling (crawling, walking, running!) away from me and eating green beans.

I will say: I long ago knew this man, living independently deep into his nineties, sharp as he'd ever been and strong. I asked him his secret; he told me he'd nursed his mother as a kindergartener. He remembered pulling a stool up to her, he said, while she washed plates in the kitchen sink. In over a decade, I haven't forgotten, and it's sounding better, less ridiculous, to me all the time.

Just: I love how your eyes follow me around the room during those rare moments that you're neither asleep nor in my arms. I love how I'm your hands-down favorite: how you nearly always smile out for me.

We were dancing to "Black Hole Sun" in the party shack, earlier, Baby Chip, and you laid your velvety head against my chest: followed our very real sun down, down with your heavy eyes and off to sleep. The others were in the yard and paying us no nevermind, so I just kept swaying under the rope lights, thinking how it's been six months and, still, every day with you feels like a miracle hard won. Wishing I could stop the clock.

And then I realized: I can. I have that power in my very fingertips. So here we are, Baby Chip, and it will always be May 2013 on this page. I wear extra weight on my hips, and I've neither colored my hair nor plucked my brows; still, you think I'm beautiful and perfect, just everything you need and even want. I tell you this against harder days, Baby Chip: it's springtime, and you and I are so very deeply in love.

Always yours, Mama

The Powhatan Antique Power Show

We were mostly without Internet, this week, and I missed you. I turned toward Carson McCullers, again, in my loneliness, surely as I turn always toward Andre Dubus for regret. Both of them help only in the way listening to sad songs or rubbing sore gums helps, but better than nothing; I'll always take it.

I wasn't blogging, but I was living.

Last Saturday, we spent the day at the Powhatan Antique Power Show. It's a big deal, here, year after year; without trying, we ran into a big chunk of our small group. The girls rode horses; rode in barrel cars; played in corn kernels; ate fair-type food.

The sweet woman who painted the girls' faces is the same one who painted Cade's ten years ago. (He was with us, by the way, but only until he spotted his curly-headed friend; then he was gone.)

I took a ton of photos. I couldn't help wanting to freeze the moment; everything about it felt so right to me: running into neighbors and friends; marveling at Charleigh's newfound bravery on horseback; feeling the sun beat down on my neck; singing along to some band's "Are You Washed in the Blood?"

I was thinking the other day: I don't reckon I've ever lived anywhere as long as I've lived here. Funny how I came to land here (my ex-husband's job). Funny how I've come to stay here (joint-custodial arrangement). But this place must be as good as--if not better than--any other, and I love how, even as things change, so many things, here, stay just the same. Sometimes I almost feel folded in, tucked in, as though at last I belong.

Cade, TEN YEARS AGO, at the Power Show

To Blog through a Breakthrough

While we were in East Tennessee for spring break, Jim stopped at a Little Caesars to pick up some pizza. When he walked back to the minivan, he had a man with him, and--although I'd never met the man before, based upon the look on Jim's face--I had a pretty good idea who he was.

As it turns out, I was right; the man was Jim's beloved Coach V. from high school. Having heard Jim talk about Coach V. so many times and with such great affection, I hugged him right away, and hard.  He got to meet the children; it was a nice, little moment. Three minutes of a moment (quick), but, you know, beautiful.

I've thought about it so many times since and have known from the get-go: it was a God thing. I mean, consider with me: we were out of town...out of state! We almost never buy pizza, anymore; Jim hasn't eaten it since his gastric bypass and didn't eat it that day. And I'm telling you: Jim isn't like me. He isn't a person of and for many people. In fact, I'd never seen him shine out with love like that for anyone else but me. What were the chances that he would randomly run into Coach V. at a pizza place in Knoxville? C'mon. Total God thing.

Today, I was washing dishes and thinking about it, again: how I felt a prick of jealousy, that day, at the look of sheer love on Jim's face. He used to look at me like that, and I mean all the time. I haven't seen that look for awhile. I don't even think I knew how much I've missed it until we ran into Coach V.

Then it hit me like a ton of bricks: I mean, the Lord just spoke into my heart plainly as ever He has: That moment wasn't for Jim, Brandee. It was for you.

And then it was like fifteen light bulbs went off in my head all at once, and for the first time I really heard a question that Jim has asked me over and over again: "Why are you nicer to everyone else than you are to me?"

We've gone around and around about it. I've told him: no one else gets on my nerves like he does (true). I've told him: no one else has hurt me like he has (true). I've told him: I'm not raising little children with anyone else (true). I've told him: I need more help (true). I've told him: I need a break (true). I've told him: I'm tired and overwhelmed and frustrated and struggling (true, true, true, true). I've told him: he doesn't always speak kindly to me, either (true). I've told him: he doesn't understand my world (true) and therefore can't fully appreciate what I do (true).

But what I haven't told him (at least in that sincere, bent-toward-improvement way) is: I'm sorry.* Because I wasn't. In my mind, my behavior was justified based upon the stress, ills, or pain of the day. I'd convinced myself that if circumstances were different, I would be happier and kinder to Jim: the person I'd tried to make responsible for changing my circumstances or relieving my burden.

I think it's so hard to accept one's onus in a situation. It hurts, and beyond that, I think it's human nature to avoid or overlook one's onus completely: to not see it even when it's in black and white, to not hear it even when it's spelled out. It took our encountering the one person in the world who could "light Jim up"--and then a month or so to think about that encounter--in order for me to understand how Jim must feel over and over...every time he hears me speak to someone (anyone) more kindly than I do to him.

*I blogged to the point of the asterisk before calling Jim at work and bawling through a sincere apology. I'm publishing, anyway, because I'm hopeful that--in being wide-open, as always, in my struggles and weaknesses--I can help someone else. If you've been helped, please share this post with others.